


The Foot of the Guillotine

by lirin



Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Chocolate Box Treat, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-25 15:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17727482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: Sir Percy Blakeney, recently returned from a fishing trip in Scotland, seemed particularly well informed on the Pimpernel's latest exploit. It was unclear how he had learned of said exploits whilst sitting next to a Scottish stream, and indeed several of his hearers were inclined to doubt that his tales were anything less than made up of whole cloth, but what did it matter as long as everyone was entertained?





	The Foot of the Guillotine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/gifts).



Lady Ffoulkes's garden party was one of the most anticipated of the season. The food and the decorations were both sure to be exquisite. And seeing as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was generally agreed to be the best friend that Sir Percy Blakeney had in the world, and moreover that Lady Ffoulkes was said to be Lady Blakeney's childhood friend, it was a foregone conclusion that those worthies would be present at the party, and finally grace London with their presence after nearly a month away. The Blakeneys had missed both the Duchess of Grafton's  _soirée_ and Lady Hastings' masquerade ball while on their extended fishing trip to Scotland; what had possessed Lady Blakeney to accompany her husband on such a venture, none could say. Surely she would be much happier in London, gracing the salons of her friends, than picking her way along muddy rivers and feigning admiration for grubby fish?

But at last, here they were: Lady Blakeney in a burgundy silk gown, with a fichu that must have taken some skilled lacemaker no less than a month to create; and Sir Percy, in blue and gold, his wrists dripping lace even more delicate and exquisite than Lady Blakeney's, if such a thing were possible. They were standing a little too close together, as they did all too often these days; and their hands even touched a time or two as they spoke with the Ffoulkeses and the Prince of Wales.

Sir Andrew and Lady Ffoulkes were dressed nicely enough, Sir Andrew's coat trimmed in the same sea blue silk that made up Lady Ffoulkes's gown; but their lace was just that tiniest bit rougher and less detailed. The sort of lace that had only taken a week to make, not a month. But that was scarcely noticed in light of a much more serious problem in Sir Andrew's toilette. Indeed, one might hope that he had fired his valet, for he had a cut from shaving that extended nearly the length of his jaw, and had bruised badly enough that his skin was still discolored despite copious use of powder. A poor showing, in truth, for his wife's garden party, and he would have to be very gallant indeed for the crowd to forgive him this slight.

Those five—the hosts, the Blakeneys, and the Prince—formed the most inner circle of this gathering, and around them, the rest of the _élite_  jockeyed for position—and spoke of the Scarlet Pimpernel, for what other topic was there? Was his _nom de guerre_  not always on everyone's lips? Even now, more than a year after his name was first whispered from ear to ear, there was no better person to bring to mind; no more interesting source of discussion. And last week, it was said, he had saved the Comte de Chastain and his family from the very foot of the guillotine itself! Lady Portarles had had it from Lady Masterson, who had had it from Sir Thomas Barton, who had had it from the Comte himself. The Comte had, of course, been invited to this very party, but he had chosen instead to depart immediately to Austria, and so could not be present to provide the details himself—but what details there were (as well as the details that had, perhaps, increased in the telling) were being passed excitedly from one to another.

Sir Percy Blakeney was one of those who seemed particularly well informed on the Pimpernel's latest exploit. It was unclear how he had learned of said exploits whilst sitting next to a Scottish stream, and indeed several of his hearers were inclined to doubt that his tales were anything less than made up of whole cloth, but what did it matter? Perhaps he would favor them with a poem. And there were few details of the Pimpernel's exploits that were not doubtful to one extent or another, here across the Channel with few eyewitnesses.

"As I heard it," Sir Percy said, "there were a number of brave disguised Englishmen scattered throughout the crowd, and when the signal was given, they started yelling and proceeded to precipitate a riot. Meanwhile, the Pimpernel was waiting in disguise with a cart, and he got another of his followers, who was disguised as one of those demmed trick— treacle— those demmed knitter-women."

" _Tricoteuses_ ," Lady Blakeney said helpfully.

"Thank you, m'dear," Sir Percy said. "Awful clever of me, to have married a Frenchwoman, what? No idea how I'd pronounce French words without her help. In any event, this trickytooze was not a trickytooze at all, but one of the Pimpernel's most faithful followers. He has women in his League too, y'know. There are places where a woman's touch is just what you need, if you know what I mean. While everyone was distracted by the riot, she spirited the Comtesse and the children out of the tumbril one by one, effected a quick change of costume, and led them across the way to where the Pimpernel was waiting as driver of a cart. So you see, the Pimpernel really didn't do much at all. Of everyone involved in the rescue, nobody stayed farther from the guillotine than he did."

The ladies around burst into sighs at this, the latest expression of Sir Percy's jealousy of the Scarlet Pimpernel—for no matter what, Sir Percy Blakeney could not be induced to admit that the Scarlet Pimpernel was the bravest man in all of England, and certainly a good deal braver than even the brave Englishmen (and Englishwomen, if Sir Percy's claim was to be believed) who formed his League.

The first of the ladies to speak was Lady Blakeney herself. "That's not exactly the way I heard the story," she said, and everyone sighed again. Sir Percy and his lady had been acting overly enamored of one another in public for too long; some disagreement would do them good. "Yes, the disguised _tricoteuse_ brought the Comtesse and both of the children to safety, protected by the distraction of the riot, and by two of the Pimpernel's men, staying close by her to protect her from notice and from harm as best they could. But when she went back to retrieve the Comte, she was seen. Accusing fingers pointed in her direction, and the mob turned upon her. The two men next to her defended her as best they could, but the mob was too much for even their heavy staves and quick fists. It was then that the Scarlet Pimpernel, rather than waiting at the outskirts of the crowd as he had been, chose his cart as the most ready weapon he had available, and drove it into the mob, desperate to rescue his faithful followers and save them from the risk they had willingly placed themselves in at his command. Nay, you cannot deny it: the Scarlet Pimpernel was truly heroic that day." She directed a coy smile at her husband, and the crowd knew that she had won, for it would be rude now for Sir Percy to gainsay the Pimpernel's heroism when so directly confronted with it.

"Is that so," Sir Percy said gravely. "That very well may be, but the story that I was told continues on still further. As I heard it, several people in the crowd seized hold of the cart-horses, and the Pimpernel was slowed by a need to fight them off. The lady was surrounded, and the press of the crowd had pushed her right to the foot of the guillotine and halfway up the stairs, though still barely separated from the mob by her two valiant body-guards and their faithful fists. All of a sudden, she gave a most terrible scream and fell from view. Assuming she was dead, the mob turned to the more pressing matter of the cart in its midst. The Pimpernel had a difficult few minutes of it, surrounded on all sides and not knowing what had happened to the woman and his other allies, until finally a distraction they had arranged for earlier—some fireworks in a nearby building—was set off belatedly, and his men led the mob off to investigate that new threat. Once they were gone, the lady popped up from under the guillotine—the scream and the fall were all an act, of course—and climbed into the cart and off they went. So you see, she essentially saved herself."

"She must have been a fine actress, to convince them all that she had died," commented the Prince of Wales.

"I suppose so," Sir Percy said. "Of course I was not there to see it and I've only heard about what happened third- or fourth-hand, but I imagine she must have been quite a fine actress. Though not half so fine as my own wife, I'm sure. Did any of you ever see my wife as Elmire? It was the first role I ever saw her in. Quite impressive, if I may say so myself. There's none finer than my wife."

"I'm afraid I can't say the same for your acting abilities, for we all know you have none," Lady Blakeney returned. "But in every other particular, I would say there is none finer than my husband—except for the Scarlet Pimpernel of course."

Sir Percy could argue the point no further with politeness, and so the crowd gladly heard him concede that the Pimpernel was decent enough. He smiled broadly at his wife as he said it, for though they might disagree with one another as to the relative worth of the Scarlet Pimpernel—and everyone knew that that was just Sir Percy being jealous, as he really should be—they were still quite ridiculously in love. Nearly shamefully so, thought a few members of the crowd, as Sir Percy dragged his wife off for the opening gavotte, his arm wrapped quite firmly about her waist. But he was the richest man in England, and thus a few peculiarities could be forgiven. And he told such fine stories, too. They were probably all invented, of course, for where could Sir Percy have heard aught of the Scarlet Pimpernel's doings? But it had been a fine story nonetheless.


End file.
